Chapter 9
CHRISTOPHER
It’s a good thing I never leave the house unarmed.
Calista’s eyes narrow for a split second before she throws herself off me, sprinting for the bushes before the explosive can detonate. The spandex hugging her ass looks even better from this angle, and if it weren’t for the ticking bomb in my hand, I would take an extra second to enjoy the view.
Big sigh.
Chucking the grenade over my shoulder, I haul myself off the ground and wince when a blast of heat slaps me right across the face. If I hadn’t already been missing some facial hair from Miss Drache, I most certainly would be now.
Leaves and dirt join the rainfall, the impact of the explosion minimal enough to keep the nearby trees standing. Mud and debris cling to my shirt, the soaked material plastered tight against the lines of my body.
If my pants were an inch thinner, the semi I’m sporting would be showcasing the gems of my labour.
Ignoring the urge to race after the blonde, I set out at a brisk pace in the opposite direction. It’s been the same routine for the past few days now, but thanks to the information Jasper sent over last night, I’m finally ready to make a move.
The green wall of the Queen’s Maze looms ominously to my right, the impenetrable hedge a gateway to the forbidden parts of Wolf Hollow. It’s a tempting offer, especially for a no-good thief like me, but the cost of accessibility comes with too high of a price.
A piece of your sanity for a window of possibilities.
I’ve lost enough over the years to know no possibility is worth losing the one thing that’s always been mine.
A deer dashes across the path in front of me, the prance in its step far too optimistic for this part of town. Dense foliage surrounds us, the occasional call of a crow filling the silence in-between.
I press on, following the landmarks I’ve placed over the last seven days. Notches on tree trunks are subtle but easy to miss, so I like to add ribbons every few hundred feet to make sure I’m on trajectory.
Blue ribbon means I’m on the right track. Yellow means I’ve veered off course.
Red means I’m fucked and might as well go home.
The last few times I’ve made this journey it’s taken me two hours, give or take a few detours to a yellow zone. Today, I’m a man on a mission, and after an hour and a half, the blue line of victory finally delivers the promise land.
Rushing water breaks through the soft sound of rain, the miserable looking creek supported by wooden beams that are barely strong enough to hold the weight of a child. Once upon a time, the structure might have been labelled a bridge but now I would be hard pressed to call it a fallen log.
Shimmying past the choppy pieces of wood, I jog over to the broken tree trunk that fared better than our unfortunate bridge. Pulling a piece of twine from my back pocket, I wrap it around the trunk twice before tying it around my waist and giving it a tug.
Not too shabby.
“Jasper would be shitting himself right now.”
A pang of homesickness slashes through my chest. It’s been a fucking week and I can barely stomach waking up each morning knowing my crew is halfway around the globe.
Rubbing my chest aggressively, I can feel the key burning a hole through my damp t-shirt. My crew owns the blank space beneath it, the family members who refuse to give up on me no matter how many times I fuck up.
Horace would be sulking about the rain right now.
“And Mae would be rolling her eyes every time a complaint flowed out of his mouth.” Chuckling to myself like an absolute nutcase, I heave the log over to where the crumbling bridge remains.
The current rushes dangerously below as I roll the thick bastard to the edge of the riverside. Eyeing the slippery surface of the bridge, I blow out a breath and send up a prayer.
The tug of twine is the only reassurance I get before I go running full force onto the log. Launching off the end, I jump towards railing, barely managing to get a foot hold before the momentum carries me forward.
Right foot. Left foot. Jump-
“Shit!”
Scrambling to make it the last few feet, I dive headfirst towards the riverbank. Painfully sharp rocks scrape my back as I tuck and roll onto the other side, the years of parkour training saving my ass once again.
Groaning like a man well past his prime, I force myself off the soggy grass and climb to my feet. Tattered pieces of fabric cling to the slick surface of my skin, the clean state of my shirt now ancient history.
Here’s to hoping there’s no dress code.
This side of the creek is unchartered territory, an endless batch of wilderness just waiting to swallow me whole. It would be daunting were it not for the plume of smoke coming from a nearby chimney, a chimney which marks the end of my destination.
“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho. It’s home from work we go.”
Whistles and stomping feet follow the distant chant, a group of men making their way home after a long’s day work.
I watch the small figures push and pull their minecarts along a rickety railroad. It’s been years since the railway was in active service but one desperate family continues to pick away at the abandoned mine, hoping to one day find some wealth buried within.
Seems like a stretch but I’m not one to criticize a poor man’s judgement.
Rusty wheels squeak along to the familiar chant, the colourful hats disappearing into an entrance that opens up just below the creek.
It’s a tunnel that leads to the underground railway system, one that offers countless access points throughout Wolf Hollow, and more importantly, is easily accessible by the cottage standing before me.
It's an adorable fucking cottage, if I’m being honest.
Swooping low to the ground, wisteria covers the entirety of the wooden rooftop while ivy clings to the shrouded corners. Wooden beams bend and curve with the drastic slopes of the cottage while child-like hearts and bluebirds sing and dance along the windowsills.
It’s a drop of sunshine in a pot of misery, and if it weren’t for the aggressive shouting coming from inside, I would think this place was Wolf Hollow’s safe haven.
At least until the children get thrown into the witch’s oven.
“You’re such a fucking moron! Can’t you see the dustpan is right there?!”
“I-I-I’m s-sorry-
“You should be sorry. I’m sorry we have to put up with you every fucking day!”
A smack followed by a cry.
Looks like Hansel and Gretel didn’t make it out after all.
Gently pushing the front door open, I duck past the low entry. Goosebumps break out as the warmth of a fire washes over my dew-covered skin.
Inside, the cottage is more claustrophobic than cozy, with chairs and tables crammed in every available corner of the living room. Dirty mugs and filthy dishes are stacked precariously next to the sink while cobwebs and dust mites cover every nook and cranny in sight.
Keeping the door open a crack, I inhale a breath of fresh air before acknowledging the boy weeping in the corner, cradling his cheek as though it was recently slapped. His purple beanie is askew, the floppy hat barely covering the frizzy pieces of blonde hair peeking out the front.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man standing in the middle of the living room looks at me with a ferocious scowl. His brows are thick and bushy, their colour surprisingly dark compared to the long white beard brushing his beer belly.
“I’m looking for the Gem Doctor.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He growls, gripping the broomstick as though he might be tempted to use it on me, “Answer the question or get the fuck out of my house.”
“O-Our house.” Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, the younger one glances at me, “This is our house.”
“Dopey, was I talking to you?”
More tears bubble up and spill down the boy’s cheeks.
“I-I-I’m s-sorry-
“Nothing to be sorry for, mate.” Interrupting the power trip, I turn my attention towards the angry one, “As I said before, I’m looking for the Doctor. If you can’t help me, I’ll just find him myself.”
Blazing eyes pinch together as undersized hands clench threateningly.
“How dare you come walking in here, dripping water all over our clean floors, barking orders like you own the place. Do you know how hard it is to get this idiot,” Jabbing a finger in the young one’s direction, he triggers another bout of tears, “To do a task as simple as brooming? The imbecile doesn’t know his head from his ass-
“Enough.” An old, weathered voice echoes from down the stairs, “Grab a cup of coffee and put some sugar in it. Grumpy doesn’t look good on anybody, but especially not you, Gerald.”
Gerald glowers at the elderly man slowly making his way up the stairs.
Barely reaching four feet tall, the eldest Hoffmann brother assesses me through the reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Circular in nature, the frame of his optics match the rounded shoulders and paunchy belly that doesn’t quite fit under his flaming red t-shirt.
“And what do we have here.” Ambling closer, Doc squints at me from behind his glasses, “A wolf who got caught in the rain. Are you looking to blow our house down or just a dry place to stay?”
Grumpy Gerald snorts, “Looks more like wet dog if you ask me. Strays aren’t welcome here.”
“I love strays.” The one huddled in the corner pipes up, his eyes crinkling as a smile breaks clear across his face, “Can we keep him?”
“I’m not for sale.”
Doc chuckles softly, “Nor would we purchase if you were. Run along now, Dorian. Get yourself cleaned up and ready for supper.”
That dick was calling him Dopey on purpose.
“Okay.” Blushing slightly, Dorian stands up and shuffles past me. Unlike his brothers, the boy’s oversized hoodie hangs loose over a lanky frame, one that comes all the way up to my shoulders.
Catching my curious stare, Doc smiles knowingly, “Dorian and Sylvie were the only ones who took after our mother. The rest of us pulled dwarfism from the genetic lottery.”